Shatter Every Window
by Prosper-the-XVIII
Summary: Age seventeen, the biggest mistake that Tamora Jean Calhoun ever made was telling her father that she wanted to join the Marines. But now she had the sweet revenge of letting the twister blow down every brick, board and slamming door of her home and past...
1. Chapter 1

**Right, you guys may have seen what happens when I listen to If I Die Young by The Band Perry over and over again (my fic Alone Again.) This is another one of those 'I listened to this far too much and had to write about it' ones. Songfic to Carrie Underwood's Blown Away.**

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Dry lightning cracked across the sky as Tamora skidded limp onto the ground, scared all but to death, the glass hurled at her head smashing off the wall where she'd been just moments beforehand. She felt storm clouds gathering in her granite-hued eyes, staring up at the ruddy-faced,liquor seeped man who she'd grown to detest. The resentment in her mascara-streaked, bloodied face was almost enough to melt stone.

Her train of thought was forever being marred by the ever-constant bang of longing, regret and partial self-hatred in the back of her her beloved mom, Emily Calhoun, whose face she'd never seen out of photographs, hadn't been an angel in the ground since Tamora's birth, she wouldn't have been eking out a tear-streaked, whiskey-soaked existence with Mitch Calhoun, the mean ol' mister whom she'd once called Daddy.

So alcohol-sodden that Tamora was almost sure that his pores were exuding the vile stuff, her father rounded on her, half-full bottle in his hand, and a mocking, yellow-toothed grin stretched across his face. "The Marines?" There was a self-righteous chuckle in his slurred Illinoisan accent. "Tam...You do know you're a girl, right?"  
"Yes, I do know; would it kill you to be a little less single-minded?" She had defiance in her voice. And by the looks of his smile twisting into a scowl, he didn't like it.  
"I don't want you all above yourself, girl. I mean, if ya gotta work..."  
"I'll do whatever I damn well wanna!" Tamora hauled herself up off the floor, lashing out with a bony-knuckled fist. He caught hold of her in one swift move, surprisingly agile for someone who'd barely been sober for five minutes straight in about four years. His thumb dug hard into the blue vein of her wrist, the rest of his strength focused on bending her arm backwards until she felt the bones in her joints cracking and grinding against each other.  
"Oh, I'm gonna make you regret you ever done that, you stupid, slutty, headstrong, untrustworthy daughter of a-"  
"Your wife," there were tears in her eyes, and not those of rage or pain per the norm.  
"You look so much like her," he face-palmed, shaking with unheard sobs, before pushing his matted, overlong hair out of his face and turning on her. "You look so much like her!I never WANTED you! I never ASKED for you! It's your fault! If you'd not been born, she'd still be here, with me! Why can't you just go DIE, Tamora? 'Cuz no-one wants you! I hate you! I hate you, I hate you, I HATE you!"

"Well, going and drinking yourself into a stupor doesn't bring her back, and it don't get rid of me either!" Tamora was screaming now; sobbing uncontrollably and trying to yank her arm away from him.  
"Don't you DARE pull away from me!" His iron-vice grip tightened and her arm felt bent to near breaking point. "I broke your arm once before, Tammy, and I swear to God I'll do it again!"

He moved ever so slightly, and Tamora slipped down to the ground, screaming in pain as her wrist snapped. She looked up at him, terrified, pitying, but hating him with every drop of blood in her body at the same time. "What is WRONG with you?" She sobbed, cradling her broken arm in her lap and shrinking into the corner. There wasn't enough rain in Oklahoma to wash the sins out of the house she would probably wind up dying in if things continued this way. "I'll kill myself! You know I will!"

"WELL, DAMMIT, GO DO THAT!" At that, he turned and stormed out, slamming the door shut, leaving her in a sobbing heap on the ground.

There was a part of her that almost wanted to die. Purely to remove herself from this nightmare she'd been living. Every day she woke up, all she saw was that she was one day closer to dying.

Another part of her had always been desperate to just call the cops and have him taken away. But he'd quite literally tear her throat out.

They'd moved from their old home in Oklahoma City because, in Middle School, she'd told a teacher in confidence about what' been going on at home. He'd gotten Social Services involved and they'd had to take off in the middle of the night.

Part of her wanted to help him. But she couldn't bring herself to care.

Every time the weather man had called for a twister, she'd prayed that it would just blow it down...

TO BE CONTINUED...


	2. Chapter 2

**Spoons and Forks: Thank you soooo much for the lovely review :-) I love hearing from you! **

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Tamora heard the storm siren screaming out as her fringe blew into her face, sprinting hell-for-leather out of the school bus and towards her home, which was situated in what was really the middle of nowhere, somewhere in slightly more rural Oklahoma. Though throughout the day, she had managed to hold in what had happened the previous night when she'd let slip her career plan, despite several people asking what had happened to her arm - which she had supported in a kind of makeshift sling, despite knowing full well that this wouldn't do anything whatsoever - and her face (she was sporting a rather disgusting-looking cut to her cheek, black with congealed blood and a bit gross.)

She didn't have a clue what was going on. For some stupid reason, her school had been let out early because of a tornado warning - unsafe and a bit stupid in her opinion - and even now the wind was near blowing her off her feet, smacking her bag off of her shin and making it impossible to keep her bangs out of her face. But as she battered through the front door to find the usual sight of her father laying passed out on the couch, it hit her. She hated her life right now. And so long as she bothered about her own survival, she would live to die another day.

Taking one last look at the man she'd been living with for all of her seventeen years, she turned round and left the house again, seizing off of the mantle the one picture of her mother that was actually in the house somewhere she could find and see. She figured that at this rate, he'd just drink himself to death anyway, so she didn't care. No remorse.

She locked herself in the cellar, the cries of the wind ripping through her ears as she collapsed onto the first available surface she could find, wincing as she landed on top of her arm. It was then that she realized that she didn't care.

The storm could shatter every window, brick, bar and slamming door, but she didn't care. In fact, she knew that it would all be alright once there wasn't anything left standing; nothing left of yesterday. Every tear-soaked, whiskey memory blown away with the wind.

There wasn't enough wind in Oklahoma to rip the nails of harsh insults and verbal attacks as well as physical injury out of her heart and past, but now that he was gone, or as good as, there wasn't one slight yearning in her heart for consolation.

As she let herself slip off to an uneasy sleep, she thought that some people would call what she was doing inhuman. Others may say it was taking shelter.

As for her...well, she called it sweet revenge...

TO BE CONTINUED...


End file.
